


Leftovers

by taizi



Category: One Piece
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Pancakes, Post-Whole Cake Island
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-15 00:03:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18487177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taizi/pseuds/taizi
Summary: Some of the food has to be thrown out, and it aches in the pit of Sanji's chest to watch sodden vegetables and discolored fruits disappear into the bottom of the waste can. One more tiny thing he cost his family, not that they would care. Nami budgets, but she tends to give Sanji free reign, and for every hardened loaf of bread and moldy tomato he throws away, it feels more and more like failure or taking advantage or ingratitude.His job, his only job, is to feed them every day. How many days does he have to make up for? How many meals? How many of his nakama went hungry, aside from his captain, who staked life and limb and the very real risk of starvation on Sanji’s faith?





	Leftovers

It feels like he’s been gone for years, but his memory is perfect. It fills in all the blanks. 

His hands land on the railing in the same place they always do, clever fingers finding familiar grooves in the grain of the wood almost on their own. He leans into the galley door with his shoulder without thinking, because it always sticks a bit. He steps over the rumpled rug and smooths it flat again with the heel of his foot and doesn’t need to look to do it.

The kitchen has been shut up in his absence, so the first order of business is airing it out. Sanji props open the door with a chair from the table, and leans out to reach for one of the fans he borrowed from Usopp and Franky’s workshop the day before.

Some of the food has to be thrown out, and it aches in the pit of his chest to watch sodden vegetables and discolored fruits disappear into the bottom of the waste can. One more tiny thing he cost his family, not that they would care. Nami budgets, but she tends to give Sanji free reign, and for every hardened loaf of bread and moldy tomato he throws away, it feels more and more like failure or taking advantage or ingratitude. 

His job, his only job, is to feed them every day. How many days does he have to make up for? How many meals? How many of his nakama went hungry, aside from his captain, who staked life and limb and the very real risk of starvation on Sanji’s faith? 

They’re not incapable, he tells himself sternly, tying up the trash bag with enough force that it stretches out of shape beneath his hands. They can feed themselves. They’re more than capable of preparing a sandwich or soup or any number of light meals. 

But he knows they didn’t, and that’s what kills him. The kitchen is dusty and untouched, waiting for its chef and accepting no substitutions, and while a part of Sanji is touched, the rest of him wants to march into their bedrooms and shake them all awake and demand to know what they  _ate._

He doesn’t, though. Because it’s barely pushing five in the morning, and only Brook is awake in the crows nest, serving the last leg of the night watch. And because he knows what their answer would be, collective and unanimous and incredulous:

“We were a little busy, you idiot. You think we had time to sit down around the dinner table when we had enemies to defeat and a wedding to stop and our friend to bring home?”

He buries his face in his hands, takes a steadying breath, and wonders when the guilt and shame will ever fully leave him. If it ever will. 

He didn’t want to leave, but he left. He didn’t want to stay away, but he would have. He never wanted to say goodbye, but if it would have kept them safe, would have kept his family back in East Blue safe– 

“Ooh, Sanji! You’re gonna make breakfast!” 

It’s notsurprising that Luffy is awake. His infamous captain is like a child in his sleeping habits, in that he falls asleep as soon as it gets dark and wakes up with the sun in the morning. Sanji has missed whole weeks’ of mornings, but he hasn’t forgotten a single thing. 

He wants to scoff, or roll his eyes, or make a scathing remark that is all bluster and no bite. Any one of the things that would feel more normal, more like any other morning before, more like it’s still the same old him and it’s still the same old Luffy and it’s still the same old Sunny cradling them on another day at sea–

But what comes out is, “What will it be this morning, captain?” Not gentle, and not reverent, but somewhere near there. Somewhere close. 

The boy at the table tips his head. His hair is growing long, to the girls’ secret delight, and this early in the morning it’s a dandelion mess, hanging into his eyes. Nami, doubtless, will brush it out after breakfast, while Usopp or Chopper distracts him with a gadget or a book to keep him still. Like any other morning before.

“I get to pick? Really? Anything?”

“Anything,” Sanji confirms. 

Luffy brightens, leaning forward on his elbows across the counter. He’s still wearing bandages that Chopper checks meticulously three times a day, he’s still sporting bruises his body hasn’t yet managed to heal–  _poor nutrition, lack of calcium, vitamin deficiency, he can’t use what isn’t there–_ but he shines through it all like the juggernaut he is. 

“You know? Me and Ace used to make pancakes when I was little! It was just the two of us most of the time, and meat was pretty expensive, and Makino told us not to steal it unless we had to, even though we were pirates. So when Dadan didn’t come by with food, and we didn’t have anythin’ else to eat, we made pancakes. A bunch of ‘em, a whole stack for both of us. At first they always tasted horrible, ‘cause Ace couldn’t cook, but he got better!”

Luffy’s grinning, like the memory isn’t a stomachful of glass shards somehow. And they’ll never tell him, but all of Luffy’s crewmates secretly want to make amends to his brother for not being there when they were most needed-- so Sanji shares his grin, makes it big and wide until his cheeks ache with it. 

 _Ace, if you’re watching, he’s happy,_ the smile says.  _He’s happy and I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere else. And if I do, if I have to, then I’ll come back._

Maybe that’s the point, Sanji thinks, the realization coming up over his head like a dawn. Maybe coming back is the point. 

“I didn’t know you liked pancakes,” he says, fondness holding fast and tight to his heart. “The taste will have changed, you know.”

“It’s okay if it changes,” Luffy tells him as if it’s common sense. “Everything changes.” He’s an arm’s length away, brown skin shining in the early sunlight that’s spilling through the open door, eyes bright and guileless. “But a pancake is a pancake. And a brother is a brother. So those two things are the same.”

Oh, Sanji thinks.  _Family,_ he realizes. But he knew that a long time ago. It’s been proven time and time and time again, after all. You don’t sweat and bleed and fight and cry and bare your teeth for anything but family. You don’t come back for anything else.

“Pancakes it is,” he says, and turns to hide a smile when his best friend, his captain, his brother lifts his hands and cheers.

It feels like he’s been gone for years, but part of him only comes alive here. In this place, with these people. Part of him stays behind, no matter where the body goes. Maybe there’s less to make up for than he thought. 

Still, he makes sure that breakfast is perfect. His kitchen stands half-empty, but Sanji has plenty left over to make something wonderful.


End file.
